by Andre Norton
“It is nothing,” Roane said quickly. The Princess was entirely too sharp-eyed, and she must not let her suspect—the more so when she did not know the truth herself. “The rocking—it makes me sick.”
Ludorica grimaced. “I have traveled often by coach, though it is better to ride mounted, but never at such a wild pace. I, too, would like to—”
What she might have said was never uttered, for the gallop began to abate and the swing became less violent. They slowed and came to a halt.
“Be ready,” the Princess ordered. She still held the beamer, training it on the door to shine full in the face of whoever opened it. Roane forced herself to ready the stunner.
But nothing happened. They listened closely and could hear, very muffled by the walls, a faint jangling. Only the door did not open.
“I think we are changing duocorns!” the Princess said. “A fresh team, which means a longer journey. Already we are far past the distance to Gastonhigh.”
She must have been right, for only moments later there was a shudder through the coach and they were on the move again, first easily and then back to the rocking run which shook them so. Roane stowed away both stunner and beamer, not wanting to exhaust the charge in the latter. She was battered, sore, as if she had been beaten and bumped. But mercifully that second pounding did not last long. Once more they slowed to what was hardly more than a walking pace. The coach body tilted at an angle which suggested that they climbed. The Princess spoke again:
“We return to Reveny.”
“How can you tell?”
“This is hill country and the only hills close to Gastonhow are those of the border. Now there are only two possibilities as to who will meet us—some representative of the King, or Reddick!”
“But you think the latter.”
“Imbert must have been tricked. Yes, it will be best for us to expect the worst. I was foolish indeed—”
Either the dark which had held them for so long was lightening a little or else their eyes had adjusted. Roane could now make out the outline of her companion braced beside her on the seat.
“Fancher and the Soothspeaker—and how many others, some planted certainly in Imbert’s own household as he suspected. But even he could not have thought how deep their plans ran. Nelis—we can depend upon Nelis. Perhaps we shall have a chance after all. It rests now on where they take us.”
The Princess was quiet and Roane believed she must be weighing one chance against another. She had respect for Ludorica’s courage, endurance, and wits. But even those three in combination could not bring her safely out of some kinds of disaster.
It was time, surely it was time, for Roane to begin to think of herself. She had the stunner, against which on Clio there was no defense, and with it she could break free from any party ready to greet their arrival. Then, back to camp—if camp still existed and Uncle Offlas had not gone off-world.
The toiling of the coach became even more labored, and then its climbing slant leveled and it stopped. Again no one came to the door. There was a wait, during which they became fully aware of all their aches and bruises. When they started on, it was plain that they were now going downhill—luckily at a very slow pace or they would have been flung forward against the other seat. The slope of the road they followed must be steep. It did level out later, so that they rode in more comfort, and the light seeping in around the curtains grew stronger.
“It is full day. And we must cross the border soon. If we pass a gatehouse—” Then Ludorica shook her head. “No, they would not risk such passage unless they have good reason to believe this carriage will not be inspected. Yet this must be the main highway. A coach could not travel a lesser road. They must have a good plan—” She stopped so short that Roane turned to look at her.
The furred hood of the Princess’s cloak had fallen back, her head was a little forward, and she was staring at the coach wall directly ahead. Roane followed the direction of that survey.
From some crack there puffed a thread of white vapor. Roane caught the taint of a new odor against the musty closeness of the atmosphere.
“They—they drug us! That is upus smoke!”
Ludorica dropped her hold on the anchor strap, threw herself at the wall, holding a fold of her cape over the inflow of white. But it was little use—there were two more spirals at opposite sides. They could not hope to stop them all. Roane’s own move was not to try to hold out the menace but to force her belt into as small a package as she could.
Squirming about, she got up the heavy folds of her skirt and fastened the belt under it, though her fingers worked slower and slower and her head spun so that she had to fight to finish that job. Her last view of the Princess was of Ludorica sliding down the wall of the coach, away from the vent she had tried to cover, to lie upon the seat. And a moment or two later Roane followed her into the same unconsciousness.
She was warm, too warm. This was like lying under the desert sun of Cappadella. Roane stirred, brought up a hand to shield her face, her eyes, from the bite of the sun. But she did not lie on sand. Fabric of some kind drew and wrinkled under her as she moved. She opened her eyes.
Above her was dark wood, while across her face a bar of sunshine nearly blinded her. She turned her head fretfully. Her mouth was dry; her lips stuck together, and she parted them with difficulty. She wanted water, more than she ever had in her life, even in the desert country the sun reminded her of.
In the rays of the sun, on a small bench not too far away, stood a flagon. The shape of it promised what she needed so badly. Roane pulled herself up. Movement was a trial of strength, for she needed all the force of her will to make her body obey. She braced herself on stiff arms, her attention all for the flagon which might hold water.
Swinging her feet to the floor was an exhausting effort. She did not even dare to try to stand, but instead fell to her hands and knees and crawled toward that bench. She raised her dead-weight hands and somehow forced the fingers to close upon the sides of the flagon, pulling it toward her, tipping it so that its contents did splash, not only into her gaping mouth, but across her chin and down the front of her dress. The moisture in her mouth brought her farther out of the daze. She sat on the floor, the flagon still between her hands, and looked about.
The room was small with a single window, across which was a screen of bars. The walls were stone. The bed from which she had crawled lacked any ornament and beside it, on another bed, lay Ludorica.
The Princess’s cloak trailed half off her, her face was flushed, and she breathed with a puffing sound, clear to hear now that Roane had time to note it. Even as the off-world girl watched, she stirred, flinging out her arm as if to ward off some danger in a none-too-pleasant dream. And she murmured words Roane could not distinguish.
The small beds and the bench on which the flagon had stood were the only furnishings. There was a door opposite the beds. It had metal banding across it and a lock plate as large as Roane’s palm. She had no doubts that if she managed to reach it she would find it securely fastened. There was no question that they were prisoners. But of whom and where?
Carefully she put the flagon back on the bench and struggled to her feet. Her head swam and she closed her eyes, fighting vertigo. From the bench she lurched in the direction of the window, bringing up against that opening. But at least she kept her feet.
What she saw below was a courtyard with a wall around it, a solid gate fastened by a bar. Beyond that wall showed the green tops of trees, and yet farther away were rises of heights not unlike those about Hitherhow. Hope glimmered in her. If they were in that country she could find her way back to camp.
“Hot—thirsty—” The murmur from the bed brought Roane around, holding to the wall for support as she moved.
The Princess struggled up. She was pulling at the lacing of her bodice as if to loosen it. The delicate lace of her collar was crumpled and her fine dress smeared with dust and badly creased.
Roane preserved her balance as best she
could, made for the bench, and then to the bedside with the flagon. She held it with both hands for the Princess to drink.
Ludorica drank, sucking with the same desperate need Roane had known. And when she signified she had had enough, there was very little left.
Now the Princess surveyed the room. Her eyes fixed upon the window and she wriggled off the bed, wavered to the wall, and inched her way to that opening, catching the bars with her hands. Roane joined her.
“Do you know where we are?”
Ludorica did not look around as she answered.
“As to where we are exactly I cannot say. But that peak”—she loosed her right hand to point—“I know. It is within a half league of Hitherhow. And I think we must be on some minor stead—perhaps Famslaw—so it is Reddick after all.”
“You mean this is his land?”
“Land of close kin. But how—” Then she gave a little gasp. “Look there!”
At one side of the courtyard very close to the wall was a coach with a brilliant device painted on its door. It had carefully curtained windows, and although there were no harnessed duocorns and no coachman, Roane was certain it was the one which had brought them here.
“The coach—” she began.
“Of course! But that symbol—on its door—”
Roane could not understand the importance of that but the Princess was continuing:
“That is Lord Imbert’s own! No coach with that on it would be stopped at the border. That was how they got us across.”
“Wait—” Roane’s memory stirred. She thought back to the dusky courtyard at Gastonhow, when Lord Imbert had handed them into what was to become a prison. She had seen the door in the lantern light; there had been no design then—or else it had been covered in some manner. “That was not on the door before.”
“What does it matter? It served its purpose.”
From somewhere over their heads there was a sharp call, which was answered by a horn note. And that fanfare was answered in turn by activity. Men appeared in the courtyard. They wore green or gray and fell into two lines at attention while two of their number ran to draw the gate bar.
“How dare he?” demanded Ludorica.
“What is it?”
The Princess turned a flushed face to Roane. Her eyes were wide and there was about her such an aura of barely leashed anger that Roane was glad it was not she who had aroused that emotion in her companion.
“That is the royal call! No one but those of the Blood dare use it. It is my call—mine—by birth alone. I am heiress to Reveny—there is no other!”
The gates opened and once more the call sounded close and loud, as the trumpeter himself rode through. Over his tunic he wore a loose-sleeved coat stiff with metallic lacing, one half red, one yellow. Behind him came a second rider wearing a yellow uniform tunic, his hat hiding his face. But the breath came out of the Princess in a furious hiss.
“Reddick! And he rides behind the heir’s own herald! Treachery, black treachery!” Her hands closed and wrung upon the bars as if she would pluck them out of their stone setting and hurl them spear-fashion at her cousin.
CHAPTER 10
ROANE PRESSED AGAINST the iron-barred door, her ear laid to its surface, but she heard only the pounding of her own heart. She longed for one of the snoop devices of stellar civilization. Even time she could not measure, but she thought it had been a long interval since they had come for the Princess, leaving her here alone.
Ludorica had gone willingly, apparently only too eager to face her kinsman-jailer, as if that royal trumpet had carried her in flaming anger over the border of caution. Roane had been startled by that response, since she had looked upon the Princess as able to keep a cool head.
Only this was no quarrel of hers. Since Ludorica had left, Roane was able to see the whole situation in proper proportion. She had only one duty, to get out of this strongbox and back to camp. And the Princess had given her that mountain as a guide.
However, there was escape from this room, the keep itself, to negotiate first. Without any tools but a stunner and a beamer, how could she do it? For a second time she knelt on the floor to examine the lock. This type was archaically simple, of course. She could force it if she had proper tools. But there was nothing useful in her precious belt, nothing in this masquerade on her back (the clothes she had enjoyed so much when she put them on, now crumpled and soiled, made her impatient for her coverall). Her cloak and the Princess’s lay on the bed. Roane went back to run her hands over fur and fabric—and so discovered that Ludorica’s hood had a stiff support to hold the fur in place.
Roane picked at the seam, finally, with her teeth, breaking the threads at one end. She pushed and pulled until she held a length of wire. With this in hand she returned to the door.
The sun which had awakened her was gone from this side of the keep, and the hills were throwing long, dusky shadows out to clutch at the walls. Her jailers had brought her a plate of bread and dried meat when they had taken away the Princess, and she had eaten all of that. They had not been near her since.
Roane crouched, listening. Sounds at last. But not from beyond the door—rather in the courtyard. She ran to the window. Duocorns saddled and ready. Four men—seven mounts. Lanterns were lit to banish the dusk.
Out of a portal immediately below her issued a party of three. One was Reddick, by his uniform, and he came with one hand around the Princess’s wrist, though she moved without a struggle toward the waiting mounts. The other man was dressed in dark colors and had a cloak collar up about his throat, a peaked hood pulled over his head.
He held his hands at breast level stiffly before him and between them something glinted in the lantern light.
When they came to the duocorns, he swung around to face the Princess. What he held so carefully he raised to eye level before her. And at the same time Roane caught faintly his voice intoning words she could not distinguish.
Reddick boosted the Princess into the saddle, where she sat quietly. But the reins of her duocorn he kept in his own hand. And as the gate bar was withdrawn and they rode out he continued to lead the Princess’s mount. Then the gate closed behind them.
Roane could only guess at the meaning of what she had seen. It was apparent that they had the Princess under some kind of control. She had seen too many like scenes in the past. But how they had achieved that (save that it must have something to do with the object the man held) she did not know. At any rate, their going left Roane on her own, to make her break for freedom.
Waiting was always hard. She kicked and pulled at her hampering skirts as she paced back and forth. These would be a hazard to her. Perhaps somewhere in this pile of stone she could find more suitable clothing.
She had no lamp and as soon as the dusk was thick enough, she knelt again at the door to begin her delicate manipulation with the wire. A job such as this needed patience. She had to keep her mind and hands under control as she worked. But at last there was a click and she edged the barrier open a little at a time, relieved to see there was no show of light on the other side. She slipped through and shut the heavy door carefully behind her. This was a narrow hall with two other doors. Beyond was a stairhead. Even as she stood listening, able now to hear muted noises made by other inhabitants, the click of approaching footsteps rang an alarm in her mind.
Roane crossed to the doorway nearly facing that from which she had come. To her great relief, that yielded under her push so she could step within. A flash of the beamer showed her a room like that she had quitted. She turned to watch the hallway through a narrow crack.
The newcomer had reached the head of the stair, a man wearing the uniform of those who had ridden with Reddick. He carried in one hand a small tray on which rested a dish and another water flagon. A lantern swung in his other hand.
As he came to the door of her late prison, he put down the lantern, fumbled at his belt for a thong on which were strung several large keys. Roane aimed the stunner at his head and pressed the b
utton. He crumpled to his knees without a cry, then slid forward on the floor.
Kicking angrily at her skirts, she ran to him. He was not too large to handle and she dragged him into the room. The flagon had fallen on the floor, most of its contents leaking into a pool, but she drank what was left and scooped up from the dish a round of coarse bread and meat, chewing as she went out, set the dishes inside, locked the door.
Then she sped back to the other room, where she had seen a promising heap of clothes, untidy on a chest. To get rid of these skirts and be able to move with ease again! The fit was bad; the owner of her new wardrobe was a much larger and heavier person. But she drew the jerkin tight about her with her precious belt inside, rolled up the sleeves, stuffed material torn from an underskirt in the toes of the boots to make them fit. There was one of those hood caps which let only her face show, and she pinned its laps under her chin. Her discarded clothing she thrust within the chest.
The lantern still stood beside the other door and she was vexed that she had forgotten it. Perhaps it would be wise to take it along. With stunner at the ready and the lantern in her other hand, Roane sped to the stairs and looked down. There was another hall below with dim lighting. And she could hear the sound of voices and smell cooking, though that odor was none too appetizing. Her good fortune had held so far. She could only gamble it would continue.
For all her efforts her boots sounded on the steps and she was alert to any movement below. If she had to leave by the huge barred gate—But surely there were easier ways than that! She would even dare the wall if she had to.
The lower hall led to an open archway. To her right there was a door, firmly closed, which she hoped opened on the courtyard. Roane blew out the lantern, set it on the floor, and went to that closed portal. With infinite care she slid the locking bar out of its hooks, fearing at any moment that some one of those in the room ahead beyond the arch would notice her.
Five men sat at a table eating, while another moved back and forth bringing fresh supplies of food and drink. Roane balanced the bar against her for a moment, then set it carefully against the wall and tugged at the door.
